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I met her one night in Kirkwall. It was dark, windy as always, typical Kirkwall weather. Everyone knows the guard don’t come looking for moonshine runners and speakeasies here in lowtown. It’s part of business. Hawke and Aveline have had my back for years.
We make donations to the guard spaghetti dinners, Hawke makes an appearance, and the guard are all hands off the liquor. Except the really dumb runners. Right under the Chantry’s noses. Well, when we had a Chantry. Looks like repeal’s more and more likely these days, with that smoking ruin we used to call the house of worship. With the mages and the templars wreaking havoc all across Thedas, I think even the Divine herself needs a swift shot of white lightning.
That night, I was in this little hole in the wall called the Hanged Man. I like the place, personally. It’s got charm, and everyone knows your name. And yet, no one knew hers. A newcomer. Probably from out-of-town. I watched from afar as she approached the barman- Corff, good guy, little weak on interrogation- asked for me by name, a copy of a familiar book under her arm. She had a hat and a three piece suit on, fancy stuff. I could see the outline of her gun when she bent over the bar, sticking slightly out of the back of her suit-pants. Not uncommon, but the handle caught me off-guard. engraved. This lady had money or sources, both meant she was dangerous.
I saw Corff point my way and I gave a grin, raising my mug to indicate. Always better to welcome trouble than seem openly hostile. The woman furrowed her brow before tossing him a coin and making her way over.
“Varric Tethras?” she said. Her accent was thick, and I could see bits of her black hair sticking out from under her hat. She had a scar on her cheek. A fighter, then, but a fancy one. She must be in with the right families somewhere, if not in Kirkwall.
“The very same,” I said. I didn’t offer my hand. I never offer my hand to someone looking for trouble. Bianca was on the bench right next to me, her ammo drum fully stocked, but if she was quicker, or if she had a big name, there was no chance.
“I am Cassandra Pentaghast.”
It was then I knew I was in deep shit. Cassandra Pentaghast was the Divine’s Right Hand.
She was in with the right Family, alright. The family of the fucking Maker.
“And… how can I help someone as important as you?” I try to look unintimidated, but damn, she towers above me, all sharp angles. Her eyes bore into mine for the first, but not remotely only time. The lapel pin of the Divine rests on her collar. She’s the real thing, and I am but a dwarf powerless in the face of such a title.
“I need to know how to find the Champion of Kirkwall.”
That was three years ago, and since then, I’ve been holed up in the base of the Inquisition- a humungous villa (but trust me, it's more of a castle) in the mountains of Ferelden. Best gang I’ve ever been a member of. Good stipends, good missions, and, most surprisingly, a good cause.
I’ve only ever been a mobster in a city corrupt to its core, but now?
Fuck, I’m in one of the most powerful political powers in Thedas right now. Downright classy. Attending political soirees in Orlais, of all places.
But back in the moment, and far more immediately important, Cassandra Fucking Pentaghast reads my romance novels. Inquisitor Adaar stands before me, and my mouth must be agape because lord, did she really say that?
“I’m not kidding,” Adaar says, chuckling as she sits at the table in the great hall with me, absently brushing something off her beige, pinstriped suit.
“Shit, I gotta get my typewriter. I have to do it. This will be the worst thing, but if she’s as into it as you say-,” I laugh, and it echoes through the grandiose room. I try to imagine the Seeker covertly reading my smutty romance novels in her room at night. I promptly regret that decision, as my mind drifts to far smuttier places.
“Knew I could count on you.” Adaar winks and stands, “Wicked grace later!” As she walks away I start formulating a plan, but first, a call to my old pal Aveline.
I make my way to the telephone Josephine has in her office with a bit of a swagger in my step and ideas running through my head.
She comes to see me after reading my book. More specifically, to my room. I crack open the door to take in my late-night visitor. She carries the book in her hand, “Another cliffhanger?!”
Without further invitation, she opens the door fully, and I close it behind her. I’m just in my undershirt and pants, suspenders hanging useless from my trousers. And she’s in nothing but her nightshift (which, I notice, in the light of the gently buzzing electric candle, is fairly see-through) and underwear. Her hair is unpinned. It looks nice out of a hat once in a while. I don’t remark on it.
“Well, since you made it clear how much you enjoy the series, I thought a few more books might be appreciated.”
She looks dumbstruck, “I thought you said they didn’t sell well?”
“Seeker,” I say, with a chuckle, “I’m writing this one for you only, you know.”
The hand holding the book clutches tighter, “If this is some joke-.”
I cut her off with a wave, “No joke. You like the books, you get the books. Let it be said I never disappoint my adoring fans. You did like it?”
“I did,” she says, looking away, her cheeks blooming with color. I wonder what that says about my writing, if it got her that fussed, “It was magnificent.”
“Well, if you like the smut that much, I’ll be sure to put more in next time. Should Donnen have the Guard Captain on her desk, do you think?”
She blushed furiously, sputtering, eyes widening in shock, “Varric, that is obscene!”
“And you love it,” I say, with a wink. Whatever she says, she can’t hurt me now.
She marches to the door, ostensibly to storm out at my nefarious suggestion, but stops before opening it. Her shift flows nicely as she walks, and I notice it’s easier to admire the muscles of her legs (and ass, I admit) when she’s not wearing that suit.
She turns to me again, “I- I have always enjoyed your books, but… The Guard Captain. It’s nice to have a relatable female in these sorts of stories, I think. She’s tough, but her romance is so- so-,”
“Ah, you are a romantic, then.” The lightbulb on my wall flickers and she looks embarrassed. I continue, my voice coming out a little softer, “Nothing to be ashamed of. You should get to feel special too, even though you’re deadly and powerful, you deserve to be told you’re beautiful and deserving of love, too.” Well, I think, This is going somewhere I didn’t expect. Uh-oh.
She looks at me thoughtfully.
“And... you... would tell me those things?”
My heart thumps. “Could be arranged.”
She smirks, then, and leans down, pressing her lips to mine. I can feel her scar and her lips are chapped from the dry, mountain weather. The kiss is shorter than I’d like, and my lips barely open before she pulls away.
She turns away, to leave, this time, “Perhaps we can talk about this arrangement further. Over dinner, perhaps, when I’m not in my shift.”
“Oh I don’t know, the view’s not bad either way,” I drawl, and she turns to shoot me a glare before leaving, the door closing with a satisfying click.
Well, shit.